So it’s true, then.
I don’t mean the bit about Elliot being back in town, obviously: I alreadyknowthat’s true. But the photo of him on this website is a new one, with a little copyright symbol in one corner, followed by the name of his publisher, Saturday Lane. As far as I know, this is the first new photo of Elliot that’s been released since the book was published, so to call him ‘reclusive’ would be like saying Steven King is quite popular, really.
If he’s agreed to have new publicity photos taken, it must mean he has something to publicize. And I don’t even need to read any of the follow-up messages from Levi which suddenly start blowing up my phone to take a wild guess what it could be.
I pull my dressing gown tightly around me, as if it’s a piece of fluffy armor that might protect me from whatever Elliot has to say about mein his next book; or whatever hedoesn’thave to say about me, as the case may be. Because, as I stand there, sipping my coffee at the kitchen window, it occurs to me that I don’t know which is worse; having your ex-lover write an entire book based on your relationship, or having him write a sequel to it that doesn’t include you at all.
Why would he, when I’m no longer even a side-character in his life?
I’m in the process of untangling this thought — and gently chastising myself for thinking it at all, because evenIcan see how unreasonable it is to be annoyed at him for writing about me, andalsoannoyed when he doesn’t — when the phone in my hand pings again, and I glance down to see Harper Grant’s name on the screen.
“Good morning Holly!” begins the email she’s sent me. “So great to have you on board with this project! Contract and NDA are attached; if you could sign them and send them back to me ASAP, that would be great!”
I rub my eyes, dazzled by all the exclamation marks, and wondering how on earth she manages to sound so perky at such an early hour. Then again, a glance at the time in the corner of the screen tells me it’s not quite as early as I thought it was, so I hurry myself into the shower, and, before long, I’m in the car, choosing to drive the short distance to the bookstore rather than risk my ankle again by attempting to walk it.
I’ve forgotten, however, that it’s December in Bramblebury. Although it’s still early, the streets are packed with people all making their way to the Christmas market and the snow globe, so I end up stop-starting my way through the village, thanking my stars that, as the manager of the store, at least I can’t get in trouble for being late.
I’ve almost reached the high street, when I’m forced to stop again, for a set of temporary traffic lights the council has set up in an attempt to control the flow of traffic heading towards the square. I prop one elbow against the side window and rest my head on my hand, watching as Christmas shoppers wander by, each of them wrapped up like parcels against the chill; and this time when I catch sight of a familiar figure among them, I know for sure I’m not seeing a ghost.
No, this time I know the man in the wool coat is definitely Elliot Sinclair. I’m not seeing things. I’m not going mad. He really is here in Bramblebury, coming out of a house with a pale pink exterior and a shiny black front door. He really is stopping just outside it, and looking back to say something to a woman who stands in the doorway; a woman with long dark hair piled elegantly on top of her head, and a winter tan that she definitely didn’t get anywhere in England. A woman who’s wearing a very short silk dressing gown and smiling at Elliot in a way that makes my elbow suddenly slip from its position against the window and come crashing down on the car horn, which immediately bursts into life, startling passers-by, and making a little boy burst into tears.
“Patience, love,” yells the man in the car in front of mine. “We’re not going anywhere until the light changes, you know!”
I do know. And so it is that I’m forced to sit there, hemmed in by the traffic on each side of me, as Elliot comes down the path of the house, and lets himself out through the front gate, which is — naturally — a white wooden one, to match the little picket fence around the garden.
I slide down in the driver’s seat until only the top of my head is showing above the steering wheel.
Please don’t let him have seen that. Please don’t let him have noticed me.
“Holly?”
Elliot raps sharply on the car window, peering in with a frown that confirms that yes, he did, in fact, ‘see that’.
Elliot starts to mouth something at me through the window, gesturing for me to wind it down. Before I can do it, though, the light suddenly turns green, and the car in front of me pulls away, moving so slowly it feels like time briefly starts to go backwards.
“Sorry,” I mouth back insincerely. “Got to go.”
And then I put my foot down and pull away, leaving a surprised-looking Elliot Sinclair in my rear-view mirror.
Which is exactly where he’s going to stay.
I walk through the shop door a few minutes later to find the place in uproar.
“An email,” Levi shrieks, coming barreling towards me and sounding like he’s had too much of his own coffee. “We’ve had an email! From Saturday Lane. Read it to her! Read it!”
He looks at Dad, whose hair is standing on end as if he’s been raking his hands through it.
“Itisrather exciting, Holly,” he begins, beaming at me. “It says—”
“It’s about Elliot Sinclair,” interrupts Levi, who I’m starting to think missed his calling as an actor, if his current level of drama is anything to go by. “Did you know? Did you know about this?”
“I’ll read it out,” says Dad, patting the pockets of his cardigan in a state of agitation. “Now, where did I put my spectacles? I was sure I had them with me.”
“Could someone just tell me what’s going on?” I beg, as he wanders over to the register and starts rummaging underneath it. “Please, put me out of my misery here.”
Paris steps forward. She’s carrying Ed the cat like he’s a baby, and although she’s trying to project an air of calm, as befits her assistant-manager-who-secretly-wants-to-be-the-actual-manager status, her eyes are shining as if she, too, has recently overdosed on Levis’s Elf Eggnog Espresso.
“We had an email from Elliot Sinclair’s publicist,” she says importantly. “It wasn’t thepublisher, Levi. It was thepublicist. There’s a difference, you know.”
